


Universal Grants of Paradise

by khaleesi_lauren



Category: Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Asexual Brian is the best Brian tbh, Coach is mentioned, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:38:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khaleesi_lauren/pseuds/khaleesi_lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People who experience traumatic events find different ways to cope with their feelings because no one person is the same. Some drink, others write, but eventually, they find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Universal Grants of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mersayde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mersayde/gifts).



> I've never written a fanfic for anything but the Mr. Robot fandom but I thought it was time to branch out (or I forced at least to) and make this fic. Mysterious Skin is a sad movie and I'm a very sad man. Also here you go, buddy, I finally did it for you lol.

 

For the past ten years, Brian Lackey searched for something that was not there; an explanation that never truly existed in his reality. The truth was almost lost—completely forgotten—lying enclosed in his subconscious, ever so subtly leaving a hint of its existence while he dreamt only to vanish when he awoke. Always appearing to be an arm’s length away, but slipping through his fingers when he grasped for it. The traumatic experience in the crawl space was the beginning of his strong desire to find out what happened to him, a fuel to his obsessive persistence in pursuit of the truth. He lost time that he would never get back, and he wanted to know why.

Brian nervously ran his fingers over his bloodstained jacket, trying to steady his uneven breath. He did not want to believe what he _now_ knew to be true. A part of him (the eight-year-old child in him) wanted to believe that aliens abducted him, that they took him from his home, that they placed him in the cellar and left to return to space. He would have readily accepted that conclusion; at least that explanation would have been less traumatic and scarring. In his heart, he did not want to believe anything Neil McCormick said to him on Christmas Eve. But in his mind, he knew the truth had been laid out in front of him with Neil probably being the most genuinely vulnerable and honest he had ever been in his life. And that raw realization made him sick to his stomach. He always knew that he would eventually find out what happened to him; why he used to wet the bed; what caused his nosebleeds; what cause his blackouts. He just never expected to not entirely want that version of the truth, which was _his_ own actual reality. His own private hell.

He cried _a lot_ that night. He cried in Neil’s arms. He cried on the way back home. He cried himself to sleep.

He also thought about a lot of things that night. He thought about Coach. He thought about all the other kids, who were potentially just as traumatized and sick as him, that had fallen victim to this predator simply because they were in his vicinity. He especially thought about Neil. He thought about how much he had been corrupted, influenced, and brained washed by Coach; that only made him cry even more.

Christmas Eve felt like the longest, most draining night he ever experienced in all nineteen years of his life. He felt vulnerable and violated and disgusted and many other emotions that he couldn’t openly describe to his concerned mother and sister. He felt broken and alone, wanting to take everything he learned back but couldn’t. Everything just…fit. His bubble had been popped, his innocence going away along with it.

Brian put his jacket in his lap, opening his side table to get his dream journal. He did not bother even looking at the cover briefly like he always does, the excitement he felt from his book disappeared once he knew the truth. He ripped a piece of paper out of his book and grabbed a pencil. He couldn’t stop thinking about Neil, what he had been going through alone for so many years. The metaphorical vow of silence he took on once Coach left that caused him to be emotionally closed off from everyone, even his closest friends. He didn’t have the chance to ask Neil any more questions that night in his shocked state; and he didn’t even get to see him again, because as soon as Christmas was over, he disappeared into the night back to New York, but he still wanted to know what he felt.

He didn’t know for certain when he would get to speak to Neil again but he knew he wanted to know everything about him, more than what Eric knew and experienced by being around him. The person that no one knew, the side that he didn’t expose to anyone. And the only guarantee of communication at this moment was that Eric said he always read his letters.

-

In the summer of 1981, when he was eight years old, Neil McCormick was sexually abused by his little league coach. Not that many people knew about that ‘tragic’ part in his life, but the select few ( _very_ few) that _did_ know had openly expressed their disgust, confusion, and pity; displaying a completely different reaction than that of Neil’s. They were almost patronizingly sympathetic to what he had gone through, saying they couldn’t imagine what they would’ve done if that happened to them, knowing that they would truly never understand what he felt internally. Despite understanding the gravity of the situation and their rightful disgust, Neil was felt everything but those things. His recollection of that summer was only full of fond, childhood memories of the man he believed to be his first love. A euphoric and nostalgic feelings, along with butterflies, filed his stomach and heart whenever he thought about it. Almost every man he was attracted after that summer was seemed to be based off the impression that Coach imposed on him. He _thought_ that nothing could ever sully his rose-colored memory and special perception of Coach, but that was all prior to meeting Brian Lackey.

Neil laid on the cold, harsh tiled bathroom floor of his apartment, locked away from the outside world so no one could see the ugliness inside of him. He took a long swig from his bottle, trying to keep his cries stifled and quiet so he wouldn’t wake Wendy up. The walls in their shitty place were thin enough that even the slightest noises from their neighbors could wake them. No amount of booze could fill the void he felt in his heart right now, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to drink himself into a stupor. After he returned to New York from his quick trip home for Christmas, nothing felt the same. The sense of escape and glamour Neil first felt when he arrived to his new home was now replaced with the same resentment ad disgust every other New Yorker felt when they thought of their city. It no longer felt like things would be better than they were in Hutchinson—it actually felt worse. His escape had turned into his nightmare; his happiness turned into a depression. His new home now felt hollow and unwelcoming, and his old home acted as a reminder of everything he hated most in the world. It honestly didn’t matter where he stayed, he felt like he didn’t belong anywhere in the world. He just wished that the floor would open up and he could finally escape the harsh realities that were finally catching up to him.

He lifted himself up, trying to steady his balance on the sink only to fall back down on the rough tile. “Fuck!” He whispered, wincing in pain. He was a lost cause at this point and he didn’t care. At least that’s what Neil wanted to think; he actually cared a lot. A lot more than he thought he should. All these feelings were new to him. He usually brushed his feelings off, wanting to accept the bare minimum amount of emotions that one could feel, but in this situation he could feel everything. Every ounce of shame, regret, and sadness imaginable. He’d like to think this all came from being home and thinking about Coach and being with Brian but he knew that wasn’t the only reason he felt the way he did. His stomach tightened at the thought of what happened to him before Christmas. It had only happened to him a couple days ago, fresh in his memories. The blood. The water. The train ride home. Everything.

Neil sighed, trying once more to get up from his awkward position. He didn’t like to dwell on it; that wasn’t something he did. The longer he thought about it, the more prone to nightmares he was. He gripped the sink, leaving his bottle on the floor. He turned the water on, wiping his face of grime. Light peaked in from the window, despite his attempts at blocking any sunlight from entering the room. He didn’t want to know what time of the day it was, how much time he spent pitying himself, denying the feelings that would only validation what he already knew. He wanted to be left completely in the dark, having no concept of time. The time he spent in the bathroom was the only time he had to himself; this was the only place he could cry, contemplate, and drink himself into oblivion without being judged by the outside world. He could reflect and be unbothered, not having to explain his feelings to anyone but himself. It was depressing and no way to live, but it worked for Neil and he didn’t care to change his methods anytime soon.

Neil dried his face, inhaling and exhaling to steady his nerves and anymore tears that could possibly escape his eyes. There was no point in crying beyond those four walls; it would only be an inconvenient for him anyway. It was better to cry in here than out there. He grabbed the piece of paper blocking the small window, moving away from the soft, developing sunlight in annoyance. He briefly scanned the importance (or lack) of letter, almost throwing it to the side until he saw the sender. “ _Brian_?” He said in quiet confusion. He hadn’t read any of his mail since he got back ~~(he was too preoccupied with the desire to die)~~ so it wasn’t surprising that he missed this seemingly insignificant letter.

He opened the bathroom door, absently making his way to his bed to read the card. It felt like a delicate artifact that would break with even the subtlest wrong move. Now sitting on his bed, he rubbed the glossy front of the card to see if he was imagining it in his drunken haze. Christmas was the only time he thought he’d ever hear of or see Brian ever again; after all, he did get his answers. What _more_ could he want from him? He anxiously turned to the back of the letter and began to read the letter:

_Dear Neil,_

_I know we don’t know each other that well but ever since Christmas Eve, I’ve been thinking about you. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. I can only imagine how you’re feeling right now. I never got to ask you anymore questions. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear your story._

 


End file.
